


Of Course We Do

by Elpie (Horribibble)



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Dorian Pavus Has Issues, Editor Dorian, M/M, Tattooed Dorian, The Proposal - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-04-29 11:14:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5125430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horribibble/pseuds/Elpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So you enjoy your coffee black, then?”</p><p>No. He does not. Cullen would be perfectly content with a cup of hot chocolate. It reminds him of family and joy and all of the things this job sucks out of him.</p><p>Dorian, on the other hand, has a taste for liquid death—the darkest roast available—and Cullen adapts as always. </p><p>Cullen forces a smile. “I do.”</p><p>—</p><p>The Proposal AU that a surprising number of people actually did ask for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. There Might Be Coffee

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this one for a bit, and I thought I should start sharing it. 
> 
> As a beginning note, you'll notice that this fic takes several departures from and makes a number of additions to the original film. There'll be a lot more of that as the story rolls on. I hope you enjoy the story so far, just know that the rating might go up, and that tags will be added. 
> 
> Special thanks go to Maria, Emma, and Vmello for helping out so damn much with this thing. 
> 
> <3

The sun is just barely peeking over the tops of the stone and metal skyscrapers so unique to the bustling metropolis that is Denerim. The view from Dorian Pavus’ uptown apartment is absolutely exquisite, all golden rays filtering across the riot of spring buds in the park as they shimmer out of the pre-dawn fog.

But Dorian can’t see it.

He’s too busy busting his already perfectly-shaped ass on his elliptical, leafing through a heavy manuscript as _Real Housewives of Kirkwall_ natters on in the background. The backstabbing reminds him of home.

His breathing is measured and practiced, even as sweat glitters on his skin. Even in the middle of his morning exercise, there’s not a hair out of place. He glances at the clock, sighs to himself, and begins the cool down.

With a snap of his fingers, the tv shuts off, and the blinds click shut.

He _loathes_ mornings.

-

As the world rushes hither and yon outside his window, Dorian rests his hip against the counter, unbothered as he continues reading through the manuscript. He finishes off the bowl of quinoa— _Maker_ , he hates quinoa—and rinses it mechanically, his eyes never leaving the words on the page.

There are no other bowls in the sink, not because Dorian is particularly meticulous about his dish washing, but because there is no one else to clutter up his life. He doesn’t dwell on it, just leaves the dish in the basin, glances at the clock, and then back at the manuscript.

Finally, he sighs and slides the bundle of papers carefully into his satchel.

He adjusts the cuffs of his suit jacket, a lovely thing in a dark shade of purple that pops against the warm brown of his skin. Strutting to the front door, he pauses once again to look himself over in the entryway mirror.

“You’re an utter bastard, you know?” He says to his reflection.

The man in the mirror just smirks.

-

Across town, in an apartment with too many overweight cats invading the fire escape, a bedside lamp sheds soft light on framed photos of the entire Rutherford brood, clustered tightly around a digital alarm clock. The clock lets out a series of angry, klaxon-like growls, but the man in the bed is only just waking up, dawn light pounding against the thin, bruised skin of his eyelids. It’s been ages since he’s had a decent night’s sleep.

For a moment he feels warm, safe, content... and then he notices the time.

“Oh, no.” He rasps, reaching for his watch, also resting in the small army of photographs vying for control of his nightstand. “Maker’s _balls_.”

His mother would likely be disappointed by his language.

Given the hellscape that is his current career path, he thinks he can be forgiven.

And so, he rolls out of bed and into another soul-crushing day at the beck and call of Dorian Pavus.

-

Breakfast is a floppy, microwaved toaster waffle shoved between his teeth during his mad dash around the apartment. He tripped _twice_ over a cat that is not his, that he _did not let in_ , but which has apparently decided that his area rug is an ideal place to sleep.

He doesn’t even have the willpower to put it outside. He just jumps over the creature, ignoring the plaintive _mooow_ ing noise it makes, and muffles out, “ _Haff uh nife dee”_ before skittering out the door.

The cat doesn’t respond, but that’s nothing new. He hasn’t woken up next to anyone in _ages_. They tend to get jealous of his boss.

Har.

-

Cullen nearly stumbles tit over tail as a cab stops just short of hitting him, but he works it into his stride. It speaks _volumes_ about his indoctrination into the world of Dorian Pavus that his first thought is, _Go ahead. Finish the job, but you’ll be paying the hospital bills._

He _desperately_ needs a vacation.

He smoothes down his dress shirt, still hopelessly wrinkled, and checks his watch before picking up the pace. He does not blaspheme, but that’s mostly because he’s too busy taking steady, focused breaths.

He is prepared to physically _vault himself_ over the next cab.

-

Cullen bursts into the coffee house with all the energy of a one man stampede. He eyes the line with no shortage of despair before he hears the barista call his name. A bit of the morning’s tension evaporates as he spots Josie’s bright smile and the pair of travel cups in her hands.

“It’s a beautiful morning, Cullen. You should take the time to enjoy it."

“What was the saying? I can sleep when I’m dead.”

“My!” Josie pouts, and he offers her a (hopefully) reassuring smile.

“You’ve saved my life today, Josie. _Thank_ you.”

“But of course.” She giggles, but Cullen is already out the door.

-

If Cullen’s hands weren’t full, he would pull Leliana into a kiss right about now. As it is, he settles for a breathless, desperate " _Thank you!_ ” as she yelps and jabs her arm between the closing elevator doors.

He skids across the polished marble floors of Inquisition Publishing’s lobby and comes to a staggering halt just inside, barely keeping the overpriced sludge in its containers.  

“You’re an angel.” He says, still catching his breath.

Leliana grins. “You’ll owe me a favor.”

“Of course.”

“You really ought to see someone about those bags under your eyes.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.” He sighs, glancing around the elevator at an equally tired and irritable gaggle of coworkers.

One of them—Servis, Cullen remembers—growls openly. “How long is he going to keep us coming in by seven?”

“Do I _look_ like I’m in charge?”

Servis looks him up and down before he sneers, “Not in that suit.”

Cullen almost regrets not splattering the coffee all over him.

-

The taxi actually attempts to inch into the intersection when Dorian strides out in front of it, snapping his fingers to send a few warning sparks shuddering over the hood. He ignores the sudden, aggravated honking as the call finally connects.

“Hello, Varric? How’s my favorite writer?”

He rolls his eyes.

“ _Really_ , Varric, have I lied to you? Recently?”

…

“I told you it isn’t _cheating_. I just play by a different set of rules.”

…

“If I hadn’t read your work, my friend, I would say you had no imagination. Have you thought about what we discussed last night?”

…

“Of course I’m right.”

….

“Varric, if there’s one thing I’ve learned about the people in this country, it’s that they’re busy, broke, and they hate to read. They need someone to say, ‘Hey! Don’t watch CSI : Lothering tonight. Read a book! Read Varric’s book. That someone happens to be Cassandra.”

…

“You know she loves you.”

…

“What do you _mean_ that’s the problem?”

-

Cullen bolts from the elevator as soon as the doors are open wide enough for him to squeeze his shoulders through.

“Cutting it close!” Someone calls, and Cullen can only be glad that it’s not another, ‘Looks like someone’s got a case of the Mondays!’. Everyone in this _office_ has a case of the Mondays. Its medical name is Dorian Pavus.

He huffs tiredly, shooting whoever it was a vague smile. She’s pretty enough, but it’s best not to get too attached to any new faces around here. “One of those mornings.”

And then he runs into the mail cart, one arm jamming against his chest and spilling hot coffee down his shirtfront. The mail guy looks as if Cullen might, at any second, explode into a thousand sharp pieces, and all he can do is deflate.

“Sorry.”

“I know, it’s—”

“I’m sorry.”

“ _Every day of my life._ ”

“I’m so—”

“Please don’t cry.”

...why has the earth not swallowed him yet?

-

“Varric, the truth is all A-list novelists do publicity. Cousland, Amell, even Anders with his manifesto.” Dorian pauses, eyes rolling heavenward as he struts down the sidewalk, pedestrians around him instinctively giving him a wide berth. “You know what else they have in common? A Genitivi.”

He turns into the grand building that houses Inquisition Publishing, his footsteps powerful and resounding through the high ceilings. His presence is unmistakable. The receptionist shifts uncomfortably as he grins like a snake ready to make its kill. “ _Amicus_ ,” He purrs. “I’m not pushing you to sell more books. I’m pushing because it will be a _crime_ if the world doesn’t hear of your _genius_ work.”

Really, he thinks Varric’s newer work is glorified smut at best, but repressed housewives eat it up with a spoon. He’d rather encourage Varric to focus on his older works—the ones that made his imagination _sing_ , like the manuscript he’s been greedily absorbing for the past three days. But such is the market, and the nature of Varric’s muse.

Dorian’s become so tired of modern work that he’s started to sound like an angry hipster.

“Listen to me. Do the publicity, and if you regret it, I’ll let you punch me in the face.”

...

“Well, darling, now you _know_ I’m serious.”

…

“I knew you’d see reason.”

He ends the call before Varric can change his mind.

-

“Fletcher.” Cullen tries his best to sound friendly and casual. He fails horribly. Fletcher looks at the massive brown stain slashed over his wrinkled shirt with a kind of fascinated pity. It’s probably schadenfreude.

“Cullen. One of those mornings?”

“I need the shirt off your back. Literally.”

“You’re joking.”

“Chevaliers, at the arena, this Tuesday. Two company seats for your shirt. You have five seconds to decide. Five, four, three…”

-

Dorian arrives to an office practically humming with activity, but he doesn’t for one moment believe that this is the norm. If it wouldn’t make a handful of workers wet themselves in terror, he’d smile a bit.

He could hear conversations cutting short and phones clicking back into their cradles as he passed by, the charade over. It would be funny, if it weren’t also just a bit depressing. He’s pleased that his reputation inspires productivity, but more than half of that cold fear is due to his Tevene origins.

They’ve developed a _code_ for him, for pity’s sake.

They’re all afraid of the big, bad mage.

-

A chill goes down Cullen’s spine as Dorian finally struts into his corner office, greeting him with an arched eyebrow and critical gaze.

“Good morning.” He says, shoulders shifting a bit uncomfortably in Fletcher’s shirt. They’re almost, but not quite, the same size.

“You’re dressed nicely today.” Dorian hums.

“Thank you, sir.”

“It’s unusual.”

Cullen _actively works_ to keep from rolling his eyes as his boss crosses before him, plucking the cup of coffee from his hands. The scent the other man wears almost softens him, touching the air with a blend of warm spices that stop just short of cloying. Cullen knows better. “You have a conference call in 30 minutes.”

“Yes, the marketing of the spring books. I know.”

“Staff meeting at 9:00.” Cullen continues. _A full two hours from now._

“Did you call…” Dorian pauses in rifling through the papers on his desk with a frustrated huff. He snaps his fingers and the papers stack themselves with military precision, revealing the document he’s been searching for. Cullen winces. “What _was_ her name? The one with the ugly hands.”

“Giselle?”

“Yes, Giselle.”

“Yes. I told her that if she doesn’t get her manuscript in on time, you won’t give her a release date.”

“Good man.” Dorian hums.

That’s not what Mother Giselle said.

“And your immigration lawyer called. He said it’s important—”

“Cancel the call, push the meeting to tomorrow, and keep the lawyer on the sheets.” Dorian checks off each item with a flourish in the air, then turns to smirk at Cullen as if he’s managed to perpetrate some new unholy offense and is even more proud of himself than usual. “Get a hold of PR, and have them start drafting a press release.”

Oh, Maker. He’s done it. He’s finally murdered someone.

Dorian narrows his eyes as if he knows _exactly_ what Cullen is thinking. “Varric is doing Cassandra.”

“...Really? I thought he was afraid of her.”

“They’re not _fucking,_ you oaf. He’s agreed to appear on her show.”

“Oh. _Oh._ Er, nicely done.”

“If I want your praise, I will ask for it.” Dorian drawls, turning his chair to access his computer as Cullen edges towards the door. Then, “Who is Josie?”

Cullen stops short.

“And why does she want me to ‘call her’?” Dorian turns the cup in his hand to display a neat scrawl on the side. A little note followed by a series of numbers. Oh, hell. Dorian looks as if he’s going to find the poor girl and devour her soul for shits and giggles. Cullen wouldn’t put it past him. “She even dotted the ‘i’ with a little heart. I’m afraid my tastes don’t exactly run that way.”

“Well, that was originally my cup.”

“And I’m drinking your coffee why?”

“Because your coffee spilled.”

Dorian nods, his lips pursed slightly as if this is all very fascinating. He raises the cup and takes an experimental sip. And then his mouth stretches into another hateful little smirk.

 _Bastard_ . Cullen thinks. _I hope it’s bitter enough for you._

He stands there, clenching the fingers not holding his files into a tight fist and waits for Dorian to finish savoring the taste of despair.

“So you enjoy your coffee black, then?”

No. He does not. Cullen has what is possibly the world’s largest sweet tooth. He grew up in a family where cooking was a means to show love and affection, and baking was an especially treasured way to spend time together. As far as morning beverages go, Cullen would be perfectly content with a cup of hot chocolate. It reminds him of family and joy and all of the things this job sucks out of him.

Dorian, on the other hand, has a taste for liquid death—the darkest roast available, and Cullen adapts as always.

Cullen forces a smile. “I do.”

“You don’t take any cream or sugar? I’m honestly surprised. You seem the sort to prefer sweet things.”

“Sweetness is weakness.”

“Quite.” Dorian chirps, looking Cullen over rather pointedly. “A complete coincidence, then.”

“Incredibly, it is. I wouldn’t drink the same coffee that you drink just in case yours spilled.” He tightens his grip on the folders until he can practically hear the surface _squeak_ under his thumb. “That would be pathetic.”

Dorian hums and turns back to his computer just as the phone begins to ring. Cullen entertains a brief fantasy of taking the phone cord and _strangling him with it._ Instead, he brings the receiver up to tuck it against his shoulder. “Good morning, Mr. Pavus’ office.”

…

“Hey, Solas.” He sees Dorian’s hand shoot up in a practiced gesture for movement and frowns. “Actually, we’re headed to your office right now. Yeah.”

He hangs up the phone.

“Why are we headed to Solas’ office?” Solas is perhaps the only person in the building who is as unlikeable as Dorian, which is impressive in itself. Any interaction between the two of them...

Dorian turns the chair back around, a self-satisfied look on his face that doesn’t match the fury in his eyes.

_Oh, hell._

He waits for Dorian to glance down at his paperwork again to dash out of the office and over to his own desk. He types a quick message into the office chat client— _The Blight is on the move_ — and watches everyone take their places with a unique desperation.

Dorian comes striding from his office looking as serene as a chantry mother, pausing briefly for Cullen to stumble into place beside him as he glides through down the aisle.

Cullen takes the chance. “Have you finished the manuscript I gave you?”

“I read a few pages.” Dorian nods. “I wasn’t that impressed.”

Rather than irritation, Cullen feels more than a little crushed. He doesn’t know what he’d expected, but...he thought… He shakes his head. “Can I say something?”

“No.”

“I’ve read thousands of manuscripts. This is the only one I’ve given you. A lot of heart went in there, and it’s...I think it has the potential to be a great novel. The kind you used to publish.”

“Wrong.” Dorian snips, eying Fletcher’s coffee-stained shirt as they pass him by.  “And I _do_ think you order the same coffee as I do just in case you spill, which is, in fact, pathetic.”

“Or impressive.”

Dorian actually turns his head to grace Cullen with a sweetly patronizing smile. “I’d be impressed if you didn’t spill in the first place. Remember, you’re a prop in here.”

He gestures for Cullen to precede him into Solas’ office.

“I won’t say a word."


	2. I Spent a Lifetime On This

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really should work harder on this story. I just get so distracted!
> 
> Special thanks, again, to Vmello and EarlGreyer for staying on top of me about writing and updating. Y'all are a glorious blessing.

Solas’ office mirrors the warm wooden accents of Dorian’s corner office, but the basic construction is where their similarities end. Where Dorian’s office is bare of any sign of personal attachment, modern to an unnerving degree, Solas’ is decorated with beautiful antiques and first edition books.

Cullen basks in it for a moment before Dorian crosses in front of him again, saluting the bald elf with his cup, numbers hidden against his palm.

The elvhen man gives a remarkably friendly-seeming smile, “Our fearless leader and his liege. Please, come in.”

“Beautiful breakfront.” Dorian says, apparently intrigued by the cabinet along the back wall, populated with several delicate and no doubt magically significant pieces. Solas, too, is a mage, though no one fears him to quite the degree they do Dorian. “Is it new?” He thumbs at a small sigil carved into the wood, almost imperceptible in the polished finish.

Dorian notices tiny things like that.

“It’s an elvhen antique. A few centuries old, but yes, it is new to my office.” Solas’ voice is dry and just shy of openly mocking, as if Dorian is a particularly stupid child poking about with sticky fingers.

“Witty,” Dorian turns back to regard Solas, face clear and bright and devoid of any semblance of guilt. “Solas, I’m afraid I’ll have to let you go.”

“Pardon?”

“Do you recall me asking you a number of times to convince Varric Tethras to appear on Cassandra’s broadcast? A few dozen, I believe.  I do hate to repeat myself. You’re fired.”

Cullen bites his lower lip hard and inches to the side to close the door.

Solas actually looks like he might wrap his long fingers around Dorian’s pretty throat and squeeze. “I have _told_ you that the task is impossible! Varric is too stubborn. He hasn’t done an interview in _years_.”

“That’s interesting, you see, because I just got off the phone with him, and he is in.”

“Excuse me?” Solas looks thunderstruck.

“Did you even bother to call him?”

“But--”

“I know, I know. Big scary dwarf, all those jokes and no posh collections to make up for a total lack of social activity.” He glances pointedly at an utterly depressing tapestry over the elf’s shoulder. “It’s a bit much to deal with. For you.”

He walks forward, each step punctuating his words in a near effortless display. He taps Solas’ desk. “I’m not utterly heartless, however. I’ll give you two months to find another job. And then you can tell everyone that you resigned, fair?”

Coming from Dorian, that offer _is_ remarkably fair, but Cullen can _see_ the rage bubbling up in Solas’ wiry frame. He’s surprised the pale man isn’t turning a visible shade of red. He keeps an eye on the other mage even as he follows Dorian out of the office.

His boss doesn’t look back, but he does ask Cullen, “How does he seem?”

“He’s...moving. He has crazy eyes.”

“Don’t do it, Solas. Don’t do it.”

They make it a few more paces down the hall before Solas storms out of his office, electricity _physically crackling_ along his arms and shoulders as he points an accusing finger at Dorian. “You _poisonous wretch!_ ”

The entire office stills, a collective gasp echoing in the shared space. Everyone is watching.

“You can’t _fire_ me, you ignorant ‘Vint!”

And they’re in it. Dorian leans against a cubicle wall with a put-upon sigh as Cullen hops up to sit on the edge of a currently unoccupied desk.

“You don’t think I see what you’re doing here?! Sandbagging me on this _Cassandra_ thing to whore yourself out to the board?”

Cullen sees Dorian mouth the words ‘whore myself’, but he can’t quite process the look on his face. It’s almost...pained?

“You’re _threatened_ by me! You’re a _monster_! Even your foul countrymen wouldn’t have you!”

“ _Stop_.” Dorian says softly, his expression crafted of careful disinterest. But his grip on the cup is tight. “You’re digging your own grave.”

“You’d know a thing or two about that, wouldn’t you, necromancer?”

Dorian says nothing, but this is not new information. The whisper that spreads through the office is just as unsettled as always. _They fear what they don’t know._ Dorian had told Cullen once. _Do you?_

He had admitted to it, then, and he liked to think that his employer respected him at least a little bit more for it. Still...

“Just because _you_ have no further joy outside this office than _spreading your legs_ and _ruining lives_ , you think you can treat us all like _slaves_. This is _not_ your magisterium!”

Cullen watches the dark-haired man’s jaw tighten, his hands open but rigid at his sides as if he wants to shove them over Solas’ roaring mouth and grip it forcefully shut.

“But you know,” The elf’s voice dims a bit, a low, taunting purr. He’s satisfied with himself. “I feel _sorry_ for you. Because you know what you’ll have on your deathbed, _altus?_ Nothing and no one.”

For several moments, there is silence as Dorian shuts his eyes and takes a deep, calming breath. The surface is placid. He manages a smile. “Listen carefully, Solas. I didn’t fire you because I feel threatened. No. I fired you because you have somehow managed to make an _art_ of being pompous and arrogant while _simultaneously_ lazy and incompetent. You spend more time cheating on Mithal than you do in your office, and if you say another word, Cullen here is going to have you thrown out.”

Solas bares his teeth.

“What a pretty smile.” Dorian grits. “Another _word_ and you’re going out of here with an armed escort, Cullen will film it with his camera phone, and he’ll put it on that darling little site. What was it called, Cullen?”

“YouLuvian.”

“Exactly. Is that what you want?”

Solas growls and _spits on Dorian’s cheek,_ but the man doesn’t flinch. Instead, he smiles pleasantly, “I didn’t think so. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

Cullen hops off the desk and falls into step beside him as he continues back to his office. He pulls a crumpled napkin from his pocket and passes it quietly to Dorian, whose expression falters if only for a moment.

“Have security take his breakfront and put it in my conference room.”

“Will do.”

“I’ll need you this weekend to help review his files and manuscripts, get the word out to his authors.”

“ _This_ weekend?”

“Is that a problem?”

“No, I...it’s just my grandmother’s 90th birthday, and I’d put in for vacation and...it’s fine. I’ll cancel it. You’re saving me from a week or more of misery, so it’s…”

Dorian nods, once, and walks away.

“Good talk, yeah.”

-

Cullen sits at his desk, speaking in hushed tones to one of the very few people in the world who scares him more than Dorian Pavus. His accent is more pronounced, deeper and richer as he returns to the dialects he left behind in his home town.

“I know, I know. Yes, Ma. I know. Tell Gran I’m sorry, all right? I just...what?”

…

“What do you want me to tell you?”

…

“There are _laws_ about that sort of thing, Ma.”

…

“I’ve worked too hard for this promotion to throw it all away.”

He waits out his mother’s answer, but for the first time in the course of the conversation, his face darkens. He’s _angry._

“I’m _sure_ that Da is pissed, but…” He spots Dorian leaning against his desk and clears his throat, his tone returning to a more cosmopolitan accent. “But we take all of our submissions around here seriously. We’ll get back to you as soon as we can.” He returns to the cradle and takes a steadying breath, his shoulders rising a bit as he looks up at his boss.

“Your family?” Dorian asks.

“Yes.” Cullen slumps.

“They tell you to quit?”

“ _Every single day.”_

The phone rings again, and Cullen is quick to snatch up the receiver. “Mr. Pavus’ office. ...Yeah, okay. All right.” He turns back to his boss. “Ryland and Moran want to see you upstairs.”

Dorian groans a bit, rolling his eyes. “Come get me in ten minutes. We’ve got a lot to do.”

“As you say.”

And just like that, Dorian is off, wading through the pool of cubicles and sending his underlings scattering with panicked purpose. It would be impressive if it weren’t so sad.

-

“Good morning, Mr. Pavus.” A receptionist greets him pleasantly, and he nods his head just slightly, passing her by in a handful of easy footsteps. He enters the room with confidence, shoulders back and present strong as he greets the men who have made the most excellent decision of signing his paychecks. “Jack, Edwin.”

 “Good morning, Dorian.” Ryland smiles pleasantly. “Congratulations on the _Cassandra_ thing _._ ”

“That’s terrific news.” Moran bobs his head, as usual.

“Thank you. This isn’t about a second raise, is it?” Dorian chuckles.

“...Dorian, do you remember when we agreed to sponsor your work visa so long as you played by the rules?” Ryland’s smile is shrinking.

As if he could forget. It wasn’t easy to find an employer willing to sponsor a work visa for a Tevene mage, but it was certainly less difficult than gaining political asylum. He says, “Of course.”

“And you remember when we agreed you couldn’t attend the book fair in Orlais because you weren’t allowed out of the country while your visa application was being processed?”

“I do.”

“And you went anyway.”

“We were going to lose the Abernathy account. I didn’t really have a choice.”

“It seems that the government doesn’t care who publishes Halyn Abernathy.”

Moran coughs. “We, uh...spoke to your immigration attorney.”

“Ah, yes. I assume everything is in order?”

“Your visa application has been denied. You’re being deported.”

“ _Deported?_ ” The sound is like ice in his veins, a burning under the skin there, and there.

“There was also some paperwork you didn’t fill out in time.”

He’d been busy pouring his _soul_ into this company, trying desperately to think of anything but...but going _back_. “Oh, come now! It’s not like I’m even an immigrant. I’m from _Tevinter,_ not _Seheron_. There’s got to be something we can do.”

“We can reapply, but unfortunately you have to return to your native country for at least a year.”

A year in Tevinter. He can survive that. He can find a way, maybe stay with Alexius, rely on his mercy, and memories of old times. Before...damn it, how is he supposed to look the man in the eye? He shakes his head, steeling himself. “It’s not ideal, but I can...I can manage everything remotely.”

“No.”

“We have the resources, videoconferencing, the internet…”

“Dorian...if you’re deported, you can’t work for a Fereldan company. Until this is resolved, we’ll have to turn operations over to Solas.”

“...Solas. The man I just fired. The one who called me a monster?”

“We need an editor-in-chief, and he’s the only person in the building with enough experience.”

“You can’t be serious. I beg of you…”

“You know we’re desperate to have you stay. If there was any way at all that we could make this work…”

There’s a brief shuffle of movement outside the office, a receptionist raising objections before being quickly placated. Cullen is good at that.

“Sorry to interrupt.” The soft sound of his assistant’s voice is almost steadying in the middle of all this upset. His eyes land on the man, leaning in at the doorway, one hand still braced on the handle.

“Mary from Miss Pentaghast’s office just called. She’s on the line.”

“I know.”

“She’s on hold.” Cullen persists.

Moran frowns, “Can’t it _wait_?”

Cullen shifts uneasily, one hand going to scratch nervously at the back of his neck. A tell. Dorian recognizes it. He ought to. After three years of working together, they may as well be… _Oh._

Dorian takes a deep breath, willing his body to relax, and offers Cullen a gentle smile. “Darling, if you need to speak with me, you only need to ask.”

“What?”

“I’m so sorry, my dear. It seems I’ll have to let the cat out of the bag.” He motions for Cullen to come stand with him, and Cullen obeys, obviously confused.

 _Cats?_ He mouths, settling at his side, and Dorian gives him a light pinch in the side.

“Gentlemen!” Dorian says, all sugar and smiles as he grips one of Cullen’s toned biceps. “I understand perfectly the predicament we’re in, but you needn’t worry.”

“No?” Ryland asks.

“No. You see, Cullen and I are getting married.”

He feels the muscles tense and lock as his assistant processes the words that have _actually come out of his mouth._

Hollowly the blonde parrots, “We’re getting married. We…”

“ _You?_ ” Moran blinks owlishly. Ryland seems a bit more suspicious than surprised.

“Engaged to be wed.” Dorian beams, leaning in to dig his chin against Cullen’s shoulder in a mockery of affection. “I resisted, at first, but he’s just so charming.”

“Isn’t he your secretary?”

“Assistant.” Dorian corrects automatically. “But it wouldn’t be the first time one of us fell to that particular cliche, would it, Edwin?”

Moran shifts uncomfortably.

“So, yes. Cullen and I--two star-crossed fools swept away by the inevitable pull of love. Really, who could resist those soulful eyes?”

“No.” Cullen mumbles, staring vacantly into the distance.

“All those late nights at the office, the business trips. The shared passion for literature, slowly transforming into something greater.”

“...no.” Cullen actually seems like he might begin to panic, or sweep Dorian at the ankles and run.

“Yes, indeed. Something...happened.”

“Something, all right. Wish I knew what.”

“Oh, _darling._ ”

“Oh, boy.”

“You just can’t fight a love like ours.”

“I can try.”

Dorian steps on his foot. “So, if you’ll excuse us…”

“Dorian.” Ryland says, cool and knowing. “Just make it legal.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

-

Apparently the guys upstairs are just as guilty of interoffice gossip as the ones downstairs, because word has clearly spread by the time they return to their floor. Cullen marches determinedly after Dorian as the mage rushes to the relative privacy offered by his office door.

“ _They’re getting married,”_ Someone whispers.

“ _The dragon and the knight in shining armor,”_ Someone else giggles.

Cullen feels like his face might melt off between the stress headache and the force of his blush.

“ _I didn’t even know they were dating!”_

“ _What is he thinking?”_

_Maker, I wish I knew._

Half of his coworkers look at him as if he’s lost his mind, while the other half keep throwing him signs of approval. Fletcher gives him a shit-eating grin as he passes, pointing at Dorian before throwing his head back and laughing.

The door shuts, barricading them into the momentary sanctity of Dorian’s corner office. The window offers a lovely view, and Cullen wonders if he might disrupt it by tossing a chair through the glass.

Dorian settles in his chair as if he’s a king taking command on his throne, calm and confident as you please. He reorganizes a few of the items on his desk, then glances back up at Cullen. “What?”

“I think perhaps I’ve been drugged. Am I...hallucinating?”

“You haven’t been drugged.”

“Then what the _fuck_ just happened in there?”

“Relax. This benefits you, too.”

“Oh, do explain.”

“They were going to place Solas in charge.”

“So naturally I would have to marry you.”

“I’m sorry.” Dorian huffs, placing a pen down with a firm _clack_. “Were you saving yourself for someone special?”

“I like to think so.” Cullen snaps, ignoring the brief flicker of confusion on Dorian’s face. “Besides, it’s _illegal_.”

“They’re looking for _terrorists_ , Cullen, not book publishers.”

“Dorian.”

“Yes, dear?”

“I’m not going to marry you.”

“Of course you are, because if you don’t, your dreams of touching the lives of millions with the written word are dead.” He looks Cullen dead in the eye, as if he can read clearly the words written on his soul. “That’s right. I know the manuscript was yours.”

Cullen feels his gut wrench, but says nothing.

“Solas will fire you the moment I’m gone. I guarantee it. That leaves you on your arse in the street looking for a job. All that time you were forced to spend with me--the late nights, the stolen creamer, the cancelled dates, and the emergency trips to the tailor will have been for _nothing_ , and all of your dreams of being an editor will be gone.”

Dorian pauses, a sad, bitter smile on his face. “You won’t be stuck with me for long. After the required allotment of time, we’ll get a divorce, and you’ll be done with me. But until then, like it or not, our fortunes have become inextricably linked.”

…

“Your phone is ringing. Are you going to answer it?”

 


	3. Sit and Stay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are now officially out of things I've pre-written!
> 
> So I'll need some additional asskicking to keep this going, but it _will_ happen. I promise. 
> 
> (Also, a number of people are very concerned that Dorian is the douche of the century. Don't worry. He gets better.)

The FCIS offices are packed to the gills with people eager, for whatever reason, to permanently relocate to the frigid southern climes. Dorian looks as if he might pop a blood vessel at the sight of the line. There’s a moment of hesitation before he says, “This way” and proceeds to stride right toward the counter rather than the end of the line. 

“Dorian.” Cullen says. “Dorian, that’s--”

Dorian hisses, “Come.”

“That’s the line. There are people  _ waiting  _ in it.”

The clerk at the desk says, “Next, please,” and Dorian waltzes right up as if this is all completely normal. The woman whose turn it actually  _ was  _ nods apologetically as Dorian slides in front of her, as if  _ she’s  _ the one who’s violated the social contract. 

“Do they not have  _ lines _ in Tevinter?” Cullen growls into his boss’ ear. 

“Of course they do, dear. I just don’t stand in them.” He clears his throat and smiles at the woman. “I’ll just be a moment.”

And she just sort of...melts? 

Dorian offers a similar smile to the man behind the counter, sliding the folder across to him. “Would you kindly file this fiancée visa for me? I’ll be right out of your hair.”

The representative sighs and glances at the document inside before smirking, just the slightest bit. “Mr. Pavus?”

“Yes?”

“Please, come with me.” He leads them towards a doorway off to the side, which opens into another hallway lined with still more doors. They’re motioned towards one labeled only with an official-looking seal and the name  _ Stannard.  _

Though Dorian prefers to stand close to the door, as if he might at the earliest possible moment fly off to terrorize more of his unsuspecting public, Cullen opts to take one of the open chairs by the desk before examining their surroundings. 

The office is sparse, the walls a stark white with no photos, but a few framed documents. The frames are outnumbered and crowded about by filing cabinets and stacks of legal boxes, each marked in a precise hand. The only real decoration Cullen can see is... _ oh.  _

He looks from the ceremonial Templar shield to Dorian, who is tapping impatiently at his cellphone. Probably rifling through his appointment book or some other joyless activity. Even without opening his mouth and drawling in his posh Tevene accent, his origins are evident from the clear gray of his eyes, his imperious posture, and the impractical flash of his clothing. 

A former Templar will be able to  _ smell  _ the magic on him. 

(Then again, if his father is to be believed, there’s no such thing as a  _ former _ Templar.)

Maker, they can’t  _ afford  _  to have Dorian open his mouth. For a moment, he thinks about sharing his observations with Dorian and asking him to behave, but that will end about as well as setting a flaming druffalo loose in an Orlesian tea shop. 

“This is bad.” He says.

There’s a sharp rapping at the door and Dorian shuffles over to make room. He reminds Cullen of a confused peacock, side-stepping and leaning over to get a glimpse of whatever staff member has decided to join them. 

Ms. Stannard is a tall woman, stern-looking, with pale blond hair pulled into a severe bun. Her face is marked more from frowning than from laughter, and her blue eyes are almost palpably sharp as she takes in first Dorian, and then Cullen, who rises at her entrance. 

“Hello. My name is Meredith Stannard. You must be Cullen, and you....”

“Dorian.”

“Yes. That.” Her teeth click shut around the acknowledgement before forming a cheerless customer service smile. “You’ll forgive the wait, of course. We are quite busy.”

Meredith rounds her desk with a stride unique to command, shoulders back and chin held high, even as she settles in her desk chair. The movement reminds Cullen of his father, minus the slight limp. It’s not reassuring. 

“Of course, of course.” Dorian smiles in a way that would probably ingratiate him to anyone  _ not  _ universally inclined to reduce him to a trembling cripple on sight. “We understand. I can’t tell you how much we appreciate you seeing us on such short notice.”

“Yes. Well, then.” Meredith’s gaze is dispassionate as she looks through the folder containing their application. “I have one question for you, Cullen.”

“Ah. Yes, ma’am?” Cullen remembers to retake his seat as Meredith flicks her eyes toward it. He feels rather like a chastised schoolboy. 

“Are you both committing fraud to avoid his deportation, so that he might continue in his position as editor in chief at Inquisition Publishing?”

Dorian looks as if the officer has stuffed a lemon into his mouth. “ _ Um _ ?”

“That’s ridiculous.” Cullen says. 

“Where did you hear that?” 

“We had a phone tip this afternoon from a man named…”

Dorian’s voice retains the same pleasant lilt, but Cullen recognizes the murderous edge from experience. “Would that man perhaps be named Solas?”

“He would.”

“Poor man.” Dorian smiles tightly enough to strangle a man. “I am... _ so  _ sorry. Solas is nothing more than a disgruntled former employee.” 

With less common sense than hair, if he doesn’t expect Dorian to set his unmentionables on fire after this. Cullen would almost be sorry, if he weren’t in the middle of this clusterfuck with his boss. 

“And I apologize, but we know you’re incredibly busy with a room full of other charming refugees desperate to freeze their toes off in these glorious southern climes. If you just give us our next step, we will be out of your lovely hair and on our way. madame.”

This time, the smile on Meredith’s face is genuine, and all the more terrifying for it. “Magister Pavus, let me explain to you the process that is about to unfold.” 

She gestures to the seat beside Cullen, but Dorian remains standing. “I’m  _ not _ \--”

“ **_Sit._ ** ” 

He sits. 

“ _ Step one  _ will be a scheduled interview. I will put you each in a room, and I will ask you  _ every little question  _ that a real couple would know about each other. Step two, I dig deeper. I look at your phone records. I talk to your neighbors, I interview your coworkers. If your answers are inconsistent at  _ any  _ point, you--,” She jabs a finger at Dorian, “will be deported indefinitely.”

“And you, young man, will have committed a felony punishable by a fine of $250,000 and a stay of five years in prison. So, Cullen,” She leans onto her desk top, affecting a pleasant attitude that makes Cullen want to run screaming. “Did you want to talk to me? Or did you want to risk a promising career assisting a Tevene mage in defrauding your homeland and putting civilians at risk?”

Cullen glances at Dorian and realizes, with a cold twist in his stomach, that his employer’s eyes are damp, and his hands are clenched into tight fists. He takes a deep breath and reaches out to cover one, pale fingers curving over brown skin until Dorian’s fist loosens. 

“The truth is that Dorian and I…”

Dorian looks at him in a way that he never has before. Somewhere caught between defeat and irritation, and Cullen takes a deep breath. 

“We’re just two people who weren’t supposed to fall in love, but did.”

Just like that, Dorian’s pleasant mask is back with a vengeance, and he affects tearful sentiment as he nods at the immigration officer currently threatening them with the flair of a trained actor. “Oh, dearest…” He sighs. 

“We couldn’t tell anyone we work with because of the big promotion I had coming up.”

Dorian’s weepy smile turns down at the corners. Cullen grins at him as the gears begin turning in his head. 

“Promotion?” Meredith asks.

“We both felt that it would be deeply inappropriate if I were to be promoted to editor…”

“Editor.” Dorian echoes, one eyebrow winging up as if he’s proposed some deeply intriguing scheme. He doesn’t know the half of it. 

“While we were…”

“Yes.”

“ Have the two of you told your parents about your secret love?” She pronounces the last the way one might say  _ pustulent warts.  _

Dorian tenses, fingers curling around Cullen’s palm in a motion that he probably didn’t intend on. “My parents and I have been estranged for some time now, for very good reason. Things are different in Tevinter, you understand.”

Meredith looks delighted by this latest discomfort even as she turns her gaze on Cullen. “Are you estranged from your parents as well?”

“No, his parents are very much alive. A very caring family, I understand. I was looking forward to meeting them this week.”

“This…” Cullen’s the one mouthing absently.  _ Again.  _ Dorian can’t possibly be suggesting…

His family is going to kill him. 

“It’s his grandmother’s 90th birthday and the whole family is coming together. We thought it would be a nice surprise. I must say I’m excited to be part of such a charmingly southern tradition.”

“Where is this surprise taking place?”

“At Cullen’s parents’ house.”

“And where is that located?”

Cullen stares at the man, waiting for him to stick his foot farther in his mouth when Dorian smiles sweetly at him. “My dear, why am I doing all the talking? It’s your parents’ house. Why don’t you tell her where it is? Go on.”

“Honnleath.”

“Honnleath.” Dorian parrots.

“Near Redcliffe.”

“Near…oh.”

“You’re flying to Redcliffe this weekend?”

“Yeah.”

“Honnleath, near Redcliffe. That’s where my darling Cullen’s from.” Dorian looks like he’d rather jump into an active volcano. Cullen may well be inclined to help. 

“I look forward to seeing you both upon your return for your scheduled interview.”

-

Cullen walks through the door wondering if he’s coming from or venturing into the mouth of the void. There’s an undignified  _ squawk  _ as the door swings into Dorian, who has undoubtedly been tapping away at his phone. 

Rather than gripe about it, he matches Cullen’s stride with purpose, still focused on his typing. “All right. Here’s what’s going to happen. We will fly out to Honnleath, pretend we’re a pair of besotted young twits, and tell them we’re engaged. Use the miles for the tickets. I suppose that I can splurge for you to fly first class, but make sure you use the miles. If we can’t, we’re not doing it. And  _ please  _ confirm the vegan meal. Last time they actually gave it to a vegan, and they forced me to eat this gooey, flavorless potato dish that I’m  _ certain  _ must be tremendously popular here, and…”

He looks up from the screen and frowns, steps slowing to a stop as Cullen turns to face him. “Why aren’t you taking notes?”

“I’m sorry, were you not in that room?”

“What? Oh!” Dorian grins, his moustache curling up with his lips in the most absurd display of joyous ignorance Cullen has ever seen. “Genius, dear man! She completely fell for it.”

“I was serious. I’m looking at a $250,000 fine and five years in jail. That changes things.”

“Promote you to editor?” Dorian actually sounds a little bit lost at the idea. “No, no way.”

“Then I quit, and you’re screwed. Bye, Dorian.” He turns around and begins to walk away, hands in his pockets and footsteps light. 

“Cullen.”

“It really has been a slice of heaven.”

“Cullen. Cullen! Fine,  _ fine _ .”

He turns back, slowly, one foot still raised to continue on his merry way. 

“I’ll make you editor. Fine.”

He saunters back toward his boss, savoring the cowed look on Dorian’s face. 

“If you do this trip to Honnleath and the immigration interview, I will make you editor. Happy?”

“Not in two years.  _ Right away _ .”

“I may come from a pit of vipers, but I’m not a snake.”

“And you’ll publish my manuscript.”

Something brightens a bit in Dorian’s eye, but he hides it quickly. “Ten thousand copies first…”

“Twenty thousand copies, first run. And we’ll tell my family about our engagement  _ when  _ and  _ how  _ I want. Now ask me nicely.”

“‘Ask you nicely’ what?”

“Ask me nicely to  _ marry _ you, Dorian.”

“What does that even mean?”

Maker help him, the man actually looks confused. 

“Do they not have marriage proposals in Tevinter? Do you just sign away your sons and daughters in great dusty tomes in exchange for money and power?”

Dorian is still.

“...that’s really how you do it?”

“Among the upper classes of Tevinter, marriage is a business contract. There is very little room for such frivolities as  _ love _ . You’ll need to explain your no doubt  _ complex southern traditions  _ before I tarnish them with my cold Tevene sensibilities.” 

Cullen doesn’t know what to say to that, so he smiles and says, “First, you get down on one knee.”

“You want me to kneel on the ground. In these trousers?”

“Absolutely, sweetheart.”

Dorian looks like he’d rather punch him than propose, but he takes a deep breath in through his nose and lowers himself into the proper position, wobbling only slightly. Cullen reaches out to steady him before quickly removing his hand. 

“Does this work for you?” 

“Oh, I like this. Yeah.”

“Will you marry me?”

“No.”

Dorian grits his teeth. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“You’re professing your undying devotion, you ass. Say it like you mean it.”

The mage’s eyes narrow for a moment before he smoothes his features and bats his lashes up at Cullen. The effect is unusual, and frightfully charming. 

“Cullen?”

“Yes, Dorian?”

“Sweet,  _ precious  _ Cullen?”

“I’m listening.”

“Would you please, out of the kindness of your large, bleeding heart, marry me?”

“I don’t appreciate the sarcasm, but I’ll do it.” He shrugs. “See you at the airport tomorrow.”

“Good.” Dorian reaches out to lever himself up on Cullen’s knee, but falls forward when the other man turns and saunters off. 


	4. Does Not Travel Well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The happy couple arrives at Honnleath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mello finally kicked my ass intro finishing the plot outline and writing more of this. 
> 
> Whoo!

The seats in first class are certainly comfortable, but Dorian looks as if he may as well be sitting on a bed of needles. During takeoff, Cullen hadn’t missed the white-knuckled grip the other man had maintained on the armrests, but he knew better than to reach out and offer comfort. Dorian wasn’t the sort to accept it, especially in a moment of weakness. They’ve flown together enough for Cullen to get _that_ much.

“So,” Cullen says, thumbing through pages, “These are the questions that FCIS is going to ask us. The good news is, I know everything about you, but the bad news is that you don’t have much time to learn all this about me.”

Dorian huffs and reaches over to take the book from him, opening it with a flourish and flicking through pages with irritation.

“So, you should...probably get studying.”

Dorian shoots him a nasty side-eye before returning his gaze to the printed information. For a moment he looks almost hurt, as if something here bothers him, but the expression dissipates quickly. He focuses again on Cullen, “You know all the answers to these questions about me?”

“Scary, isn’t it?” Cullen glares out at the clouds.

“Little bit.”

A pause.

“What am I allergic to?”

“Stripweed.” He pauses, “And the full spectrum of human emotion.”

Dorian actually snorts. “I should be so lucky. Let’s see…”

He hums, one finger sliding over the ink on the page, and stops short at one of the questions. “Ah. Yes, I suppose...do I have any scars?”

“I’m pretty sure that you have a tattoo.”

“Oh, you’re pretty sure?” Dorian actually looks amused without the usual edge of _could potentially bite your face off at any given moment._ It’s a nice change.

“About two years ago, you wore a white shirt to work, and I noticed an outline through your sleeve. Just here,” He taps his own upper arm, in the area he estimates Dorian’s tattoo to be. “A snake, I think.”

“Well, aren’t you a marvel.” Dorian eyes his smug smile before answering with a wicked one of his own. “But then, you’re assuming there’s just the one. Do you spend a great deal of time studying the slope of my shoulder?”

“Ugh.”

“It’s exciting for me to experience you like this.”

“You know, you’re going to have to tell me where the rest are, and _what_ they are. You might even have to show me.”

Just like that, the humor drains from Dorian’s face. “No, I’m not.”

“They’re going to ask.”

“We’re done with that question.”

“I mean it, it’s--”

“ _ **Done**_. Thank you. On to another question. Let me see...ah. Whose place do we stay at, yours or mine? That’s easy. Mine.”

“And why wouldn’t we stay at mine?”

“Because I live uptown with a commanding view of Justinia Park. You live in a tiny studio apartment that keeps being invaded by cats, who are, point of fact, your only companions save for your stacks of yellowed Hart Classics.”

“How did you…”

Dorian reaches out to pluck a bit of fur off of Cullen’s shirt, holding it up like Exhibit A. “You think I pay no attention?”

The look in Dorian’s eye is bright and nearly predatory, but it fizzles quickly when the aircraft hits a patch of rough air. His vice grip darts back to the armrests, his arm brushing against Cullen’s in his hurry.

The captain’s voice comes over the speakers: “Ladies and gentlemen, please fasten your seatbelt. We’re beginning our descent into Redcliffe.”

“Redcliffe? I thought we were going to Honnleath.”

“We are.”

“How are we _getting_ to Honnleath?”

-

On the tiny charter plane into Honnleath, Dorian gives up all pretense of grasping the armrest and clings to Cullen’s arm, eyes focused straight ahead and undeniably wet.

Cullen stares openly at the point of contact, blinking in confusion.

Dorian Pavus doesn’t need _help,_ and he certainly does not _cling_.

“Er…” Cullen clears his throat and wets his lips, prepared to make some sort of awkward small talk, and finally deciding against it. He sighs and shifts in his seat, and Dorian’s grip loosens just slightly. There’s a subtle tremor, and the mage’s thumb swipes against the fabric of Cullen’s jacket.

He rasps, “I hate flying. You know that.”

“I picked up on it, yes.”

“Wasn’t always this bad.” He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. “That’s a lie. I just…”

“Dorian,” Cullen says. “It’s all right. I won’t tell.”

The man chokes out a tired little laugh, his lips turning up just a little. “Damned decent of you.”

“Of course. We’re engaged, after all.”

“Fancy that.”

-

As the wheels jar against the tarmac, Cullen pretends not to mind the sudden vice-like tense and release of fingers against his skin. Instead, he glances out the window and...ah. A bright, irrepressible smile takes over his face at the sight of Adelaide Rutherford jumping up and down, WELCOME CULLEN AND DORIAN! written in neat, blocky letters on the sign held over her head.

His Gran Eudosia stands next to her, holding her own similarly-worded sign and bouncing on the balls of her feet.

He can hear them cheering, mindless of the crowd around them, as he disembarks, his duffle tucked under his arm.

“Over here!” Ma beams, as if anyone could miss her.

Cullen nearly runs to the Rutherford women, scooping his Ma into his arms and spinning her about tidily. She laughs, gripping his face in her warm hands. “It’s so good to see you, my sweet boy!”

“What about Bran, ma?”

“Eh. It’s harder to get rid of him.”

“Shame on you, Adelaide!” His Gran snorts as Cullen puts her daughter-in-law back on solid ground and turns his sights on her. “Don’t you think of picking me up, now. You’ll crush an old woman like me.”

“Nah, Gran! You’re made of iron.”

“A right flirt you are. Come here, dearest.” She draws him to her, ruffling his hair as he bends down to wrap her up in his arms. She smells just as he remembers, like herbs and warmth, and he lets himself drift into the comfort of home for a few blissful seconds.

Right up until…

“So where’s Da?”

Ma frowns. “You know him. Always busy as a bee.”

“Forget about _him!_ Where’s your lover boy?!”

Cullen nearly chokes on air as his grandmother cranes about, looking for his brand new ball and chain. He sighs as he catches sight of Dorian kneeling near the steps, pretending to fiddle with his messenger bag as he tries to regain his sense of balance. “Right there.”

“I suppose the word ‘boy’ isn’t quite accurate.”

“Not hardly. My son _does_ have an eye, doesn’t he?”

Cullen watches in outright _horror_ as his mother and grandmother both spend a solid fifteen seconds ogling his boss’ ass. It’s then, casting about desperately for some other topic of conversation, that he notices the little boy at Eudosia’s side, shifting from foot to foot nervously.

“Er...hello?”

“Oh! Cullen, dear boy, this is Cole. He’s been staying with us for a bit. Still a little shy, you know. Why don’t you say hello, sweetest?”

The boy fidgets with his oversized sleeves, glances up at Cullen, and says, “Yes!”

And proceeds to shoot like a snapped rubber band, straight for Dorian where he’s just beginning to rise from the tarmac. Cullen winces, preparing for a sudden impact and an utter meltdown, but the boy stops short and taps Dorian’s arm in a rapid staccato before clasping his hands behind his back.

What follows is a strange conversation involving a great deal of leaning and rocking on the child’s part and then, abruptly, Dorian Pavus, Dread in a Designer Suit, is reaching up to adjust the boy’s hat and opening his arms for an embrace.

Dorian is hugging a human child, and the human child has not burst into flame.

Dorian is _smiling_ and letting himself be led over to the receiving area, extending his free hand in greeting.

“Dorian, this is my Ma.”

Adelaide bypasses the handshake and goes right in to straighten Dorian’s coat. “There you are,” She says, and pauses for a moment as if contemplating spit-slicking a few stray hairs back into place.

“Here I am,” Dorian laughs and moves quickly to avoid the impromptu grooming.

“And my Gran, Eudosia.”

Gran smiles brightly, a wicked glint in her eye. “Hello, there! Do you prefer Dorian or ‘The Archdemon’s Mistress.’ We’ve heard it both ways.”

Dorian laughs, his own teeth flashing darkly. “My dear Eudosia, I _never_ take a side role.”

“Goodness, no. Not with a bottom like that.”

“I…?” Dorian shakes his head. “Thank you so much...for allowing me to be a part of your celebration.”

“We’re delighted to have you. Cole, too, it seems.”

At the mention of his name, the boy startles, pressing close to Dorian’s leg and smiling. “It’s not so scary,” He mumbles. “They mean it, when they smile.”

Ma looks confused, but she rests a hand on Dorian’s shoulder anyway. “Let’s get you two back to the fort, ha?”

-

Ma’s truck rumbles and bumps through the familiar green mountainsides of home, and Cullen loses himself in the scent of moss and fresh air breezing by the open window.

Dorian occupies himself with Cole, mumbling softly back and forth until the boy finally seems to run out of energy and falls asleep, head pillowed on the mage’s knee. Cullen sneaks quick glances, confounded by the sight of long, carefully manicured fingers carding through the boy’s hair.

He seems to take an actual interest in their surroundings once they make it into town, twisting here and there to catch glimpses of the shop signs and banners.

Little by little, Cullen watches Dorian’s dawning surprise as they pass Rutherford Parcel and Post, Rutherford General Store, and the Rutherford Clinic. Coming to the realization that his family, essentially,  _owns_ an entire town. 

He waits, brow arched, for the man to turn and look at him in open confusion. He attempts a sweet tone, but falls just short through gritted teeth. “You didn’t tell me about all the family _businesses,_ darling.”

“He’s always been very modest.” Eudosia offers, oh so helpfully, from the front. She’s been quiet for most of the drive. Cullen has no doubt she argued with his mother for a solid twenty minutes over who would drive the truck.

(No one in town will likely ever forget what Eudosia Rutherford can do with a stick shift and four wheel drive.)

“Modest, yes.” Dorian croons. “I’ve never met a humbler man.”

-

When the pull up at the docks, Dorian looks about in open confusion. Cole stirs on his lap, and he pauses for a moment to help the boy get unbuckled before following the rest of the group out of the cab.

He seems genuinely nervous as he watches Cullen pull his bag from the truck bed.

“What are we doing? Shouldn’t we check into our hotel soon?”

“Oh, no, dear! We cancelled your reservation!” Adelaide chirps.

Cullen watches in muffled _glee_ as Dorian cycles through surprise-irritation-horror before landing on _rictus grin_ and turning to face his mother. He wonders, with a childish vengeance, if the man’s face might stick that way. He hides a snicker as he continues unloading the luggage.

“Oh?” Dorian says.

“Of course! Family doesn’t stay at a hotel, you’ll stay in our home.”

“Ah. Yes. Fantastic.” Dorian turns sharply on his heel and whispers, “ _What?!_ ”

Cullen drops Dorian’s designer suitcase with a pained grunt. “Maker, you’ll want to lift that one from the knees.”

He hikes his own bag further up his shoulder and moves to catch up with his family. His grandmother turns to say something and stops short, hands on hips.

“Cullen! Help him with those.”

“Love to.” Cullen shrugs. “But he won’t let me. He insists on doing it himself. Very masculine.”

The women nod their understanding and continue on.

Cullen pauses to look back, taking in the sight of Cole throwing his tiny body against the weight of Dorian’s bag before the man snorts and gives it a firm tug to move it along, shaking his head as the boy pinwheels his arms for a moment.

“Come on, sweetie!” Cullen lilts, and Dorian shoots him a look that could (and probably does) melt internal organs.

Ah, marital life will be such bliss.


	5. It's Not a Pity Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian's always been great fun at parties. 
> 
> Especially with a full glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Praise be to Jack-the-Giant-Killer for unfucking everything for me.   
> Especially the em dashes. 
> 
> <3 <3

Cole is quick to scramble down the ladder, looking up at Cullen and Dorian with bright-eyed curiosity. Dorian freezes at the sight of the boat bobbing in the water.

Cullen shrugs and starts down the rungs when Dorian begins hissing at him. Psst! Psst! Like he’s scolding a cat.

“I’m not getting on that boat.”

“You don’t have to. See you in a few days.”

Dorian actually _growls_ , tucking his bag more firmly under his arm. “You _know_ I can’t swim!”

“Hence, the boat.” Cullen drawls before continuing downward, hopping off and landing with a pleasing ‘thud’ on the wooden planks. He gives a little flourish with his arms as Dorian stares at him.

“It’s safe.” Cole calls up to him. “The seats are warm, and the wind tickles. I like it when the sun is out and the salt is on my face.”

Eudosia herds the boy onto the boat, patting him gently, and Cullen sighs. “Come on.”

Dorian shifts nervously before finally mounting the ladder, his descent awkward and incredibly slow.

“Looking good, boss. Take your time, though.”

“Shh!”

“Wouldn’t want you to rush.”

“Cullen--”

He makes it halfway down.

“Just going to give you a hand down, all right?”

He reaches up to offer physical support, and misses the other man’s back entirely, ending up with a handful of firm, rounded...wow.

Dorian freezes in place.

“ _Hand. Off. Ass. Off ass!”_

Cullen releases him, and Dorian makes quick work of the rest of the ladder, stepping shakily onto the floating dock.

“Congratulations. You made it. I’m a hundred years old.”

-

Cole wasn’t exaggerating about the sun-warmed seats, or the salt-tinged breeze whipping by as they speed over the water. The boy, for his part, seems content to sit quietly as they make their way to the family home, occasionally reaching his hand out to catch the breeze.

Dorian chats with him absently as Cullen studies them both.

When the Rutherford house comes into view, Adelaide calls back to them from the captain’s seat. “Here we are. We’re home!”

Dorian looks _thunderstruck_ as he takes in the estate, framed like a landscape on its sizeable plot overlooking the shore. “ _That_ is your home? Who _are_ you people?”

Eudosia laughs.

“It’s very big because there are a lot.” Cole says.

“A lot of what?”

“Us!”

-

As soon as they’ve docked and disembarked, Cole rockets off along the path, eager to proclaim their arrival. Dorian and Cullen hang back as Eudosia and Adelaide follow his footsteps.

“Why did you tell me you were poor?”

“I never said I was poor.” Cullen says, ever the innocent, hands in his pockets as he shrugs his shoulders.

“You also never told me you were rich.”

“I’m _not_ rich. My parents are rich.”

“You do realize that’s something only rich people say.”

“Cullen! Welcome home!” Cullen pauses, looking up at the overhang, and finds Alistair and his wife waving enthusiastically. He hasn’t seen his cousin in… oh, dear.

“Ho, there!” He smiles, waving back, and turns a bewildered look at his mother. “Ma, what’s going on?”

“Nothing!” Adelaide smiles, swaying in place like a schoolgirl with a secret. “It’s just a little welcoming party! Is that a crime?”

“Just fifty of our closest friends and neighbors, all excited to meet you!” Eudosia adds. She makes a placating motion toward Dorian, as if his maidenly sensibilities may yet be overwhelmed by such a large crowd.

“Fifty?” Dorian parrots softly, “Last time I attended a party with fifty people, three were assassinated.”

“What?”

“Slow evening.”

“ _What?”_

-

There are somehow more people than dogs, but not by many.

-

Fifteen minutes into the party, Dorian has been asked _three times_ if he bleeds his slaves very often, four times how many duels he’s won, and once—by one of Cullen’s bolder friends—what an _orgy_ was like.

Mia Rutherford introduces herself to him as she rescues him from a particularly loud-mouthed aunt and sweeps him away to the kitchen where Rosalie is hiding.

“We’ll have time to get acquainted later, of course.” She says, pressing a ‘World’s Okayest Dad’ mug into his hands.

“Of course.”

“For now you’ll need this.”

“I—ah.” He watches with unadulterated gratitude as she pours a generous serving of wine into the mug and pats him on the shoulder. “Bless you.”

“Da’s got the good stuff locked up.” Rosalie doesn’t even look up from her phone, thumbing away from her perch atop the kitchen island.

“We’ll hope this is enough.” Mia nods, then adds another quick splash, and nods again.

One of the dogs, sprawled out by the oven, whines pitifully. Three more are sitting by the counter, waiting for Rosalie to drop a scrap of food.

This is normal.

-

Dorian catches up to Cullen quickly enough, though there are a few near misses. He’s never seen quite so many broad-shouldered blondes in one place.

He nearly trips over at least three more dogs as he navigates the house, all eager to slobber at his fingers and bump up against his legs.

Cullen nods and waves off whichever friend and/or neighbor he’s been so eagerly conversing with and turns to walk further into the throng, Dorian stuck to his side.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were some kind of obscure, country Cousland?”

“That’s my cousin’s wife.”

“Ugh!”

“And how was I meant to do that? We’ve been in the middle of talking about _you_ for the last three years.”

Dorian looks as if he wants to swat him, but regains his composure. He grabs hold of his shirt and pulls him to a quiet spot off to the side. “Stop, all right? Stop. Let’s think about this.”

“I’m listening.”

“This bickering has to stop. People need to think we’re in love and, contrary to what my parents might have you believe, that particular ruse does not hold up well through constant public bitching.”

“I can handle that.”

“Can you?”

“Oh, certainly. I don’t melt when confronted by sacred objects.”

“Ha. That’s funny. You’re funny.”

“It’s always good to be appreciated.”

“When are you going to tell them we’re engaged?”

Cullen sobers at that. “I’ll pick the right moment. For now--”

He’s cut off when Delrin and Rylen catch sight of him, hurrying over to slap him on the back and shoulders.

“Cullen!” Rylen grins, “You finally crawled back!”

“We heard you were bringing…oh.” Dorian stands, unperturbed, as Delrin examines him openly. “You’re…”

“Devastatingly handsome? Astoundingly well-dressed?”

“...a mage.”

“Ah. Yes, there’s that.”

Cullen’s childhood friends beat a hasty retreat.

“That… is not a good sign.”

Dorian takes a long drink of whatever he’s got in his mug and stares dubiously into the crowd.

-

They’re in the middle of pleasant small-talk with an older couple when Dorian has the unfortunate pleasure of being introduced to Bernard Rutherford—the man, the legend, the unfiltered.

Mrs. Carroway is in the middle of asking after Cullen’s work, genuinely curious. She asks, “What is it, exactly, that a book editor does?”

“Oh…” Cullen prepares himself to correct her, and to watch the dimming in her eyes as she realizes her mistake. And that’s when his father cuts in, his voice deep, rumbling, and completely unapologetic.

“That’s a great question, Nell. I’m curious as to the answer myself.”

“Da.” Cullen grits out.

“Son.” Bernard returns the same. “This must be Darius.”

“Dorian.”

“Bernard. Pleasure.”

“The pleasure is all mine, I assure you.”

“Yes. Isn’t it. Why don’t you tell us exactly what a book editor does, besides taking writers out to lunch and getting drunk.”

Mrs. Carroway laughs. “Now that sounds like great fun! No wonder you like being an editor, dear.”

“Oh no, Nell. Cullen’s not an editor, he’s an editor’s assistant. Darius here’s the editor.”

“Again, Dorian.” Dorian smiles pleasantly, reaching out of view to rest his fingers on Cullen’s back. The blonde startles at the silent show of support, his muscles tight.

Mr. Carroway makes a noise of understanding, trying to alleviate the tremendously awkward conversation he and his wife have been abruptly dragged into. “So you’re actually…”

“Cullen’s boss.” Bernard grunts.

“Well, how about that.” Mr. Carroway glances at his wife, who gives him a wide-eyed look in return.

Bernard smiles and cants his head, lifting his glass. “Think it’s time for a refill.” Just like that, he walks off.

Dorian watches him for a moment before chiming in. “Not much of a politician, is he?”

Cullen slips after his father, retreating without a word as Dorian offers the couple a charming smile.

Backstabbing, gossip, and alcohol.

It reminds him of home.

Until yet another dog headbutts him in the thigh and nearly knocks him over.

-

“Certainly one way to make an impression, Da.” Cullen spits as he catches up to his father.

“What in the _Void,_ Cullen? You show up after all this time with a man you _hated_ , and now you’re screwing him?”

Cullen grits his teeth so hard and fast he nearly cuts his tongue. “We _just_ got here, can you not wait _two_ _ **seconds**_ before you chase me out again?”

“I just never thought you the sort of man who slept his way to the middle.”

“I’ll have you know that that man in there--the one I’m ‘ _screwing’_ \--is one of the most respected editors at our company, and--”

“He’s your _meal ticket_ and you brought him home to meet your mother. A _**mage**_ from _Tevinter._ ”

“Word travels fast.” Cullen offers up a hard smile. “But it’s not always accurate, is it? He’s not my meal ticket, Da. He’s my fiancee.”

“What did you just say?”

“You heard me. I’m getting married to _that mage_ from _Tevinter_.” He shoulders his father with more force than is strictly needed on his way into the main room. The bitterness hangs about his neck.

Now’s as good a time as any.

-

Dorian wanders about the house aimlessly, smiling pleasantly at anyone who greets him, until he finds a quiet spot off the main hall. He means to duck into the nearest room when he comes up against a solid wall of white fabric.

He looks up into the face of a beaming qunari wearing an eye patch.

“Hey, there. How ya doin’?” His voice is a low, rumbling thing that would in any other circumstance interest Dorian quite a bit. As it is now, he just wants to tuck into an empty space and hide until the party goes away.

“Quite well, thank you.” He says instead.

“Care for some hors d’oeuvres?” The man—waiter, goodness—offers up a tray, but Dorian shakes his head. “They’re pretty good. Especially the little pink ones.”

“I’m all right, thanks.”

“It’s a local dish.”

“It’s just—the texture. I’m not a fish—”

“You sure?”

“I’m good. I’ve got my—” He holds up the mug.

“You don’t need something to balance that out?”

“Your concern is very sweet, but—” He takes a demonstrative sip of wine, savoring the taste as, honestly, the Rutherfords have an eye for quality.

“ **Ladies and gentlemen, I have a very important announcement to make.”**

Dorian perks up at the sound of Cullen’s voice resounding throughout the speakers placed about the house.

“ **Dorian and I are getting married.”**

He spits the wine directly onto the waiter’s shirt.

“Maker!” He splutters.

“That’s all right.” The other man laughs. “‘s wash-and-wear.”

“Are you certain?”

“Krem’ll get over it. You okay?”

“I’m— _maybe?_ ”

“That’s right!” Cullen continues, “Love, where’d you run off to?”

The right moment, indeed.

-

“Here he is!” Cullen reaches his hand out, palm up, as Dorian peeks around a corner, sheer terror plastered on his face. “Come here, won’t you, darling pup?”

‘ _Pup?!’_ Dorian mouths, and Cullen nods emphatically, crooking his fingers.

Dorian makes a show of gliding into the room, smiling brilliantly as people begin to applaud in broken off segments, confused as to whether or not this is some kind of strange joke.

“There he is. Love of my life.” Cullen turns to face him as they both stand in the middle of the assembly. “Isn’t he breath-taking?”

Dorian has never been so dismayed by the popping of a champagne cork.

There is officially no way out of this.

**Author's Note:**

> [Come say hello on tumblr. ](http://anabundanceofstilinskis.tumblr.com/)


End file.
